“Excerpt from "The Trees in Winter"        I’m old now and tired. Dried up and brittle. My hands are like clumsy crooked twigs hanging from my stick figure wrists. My body doesn’t work like it used to, and what goes on in my mind feels about as useful as a cheap trick performed day after day by a third rate magician, an act so worn out that not even I can pretend to be entertained by it anymore. There’s nothing much left to say and even less to do. The repetition is uninspiring, like playing the same set of the same songs day after day. The jazz has gone out of my life, and the dull plodding rhythm I’m left with will never bring it back. There’s a persistent chill in the house that follows me around. Maybe it’s not in the house but in me. Am I becoming morbid? Am I becoming anything?”

“They remained in bed through the evening and it was as good as it had ever been if not better. Uninhibited sounds of pleasure erupted time and again, shattering the museumlike stillness like fine holiday china removed from a dustblown cupboard and smashed one plate at a time. The articulation of unfeigned desire issued from each of them, resounding through the house, and each of them heard it. It was louder than the silence of neglect that had clamored so loudly in the past, when the disaffection borne of life’s distractions would have had them believe there could be something more important than what they’d found in each other. But now, all they’d been through together had honed their ability to see and hear and feel what they’d had all along, and nearly lost. They knew the world around them would jabber on, deafeningly at times, but they would face it together, knowing what they knew, and shout it down. Between the two of them they had more than enough sound and color and light to fill all the time and space and need they could ever expect to possess. The key to their happiness consisted only in knowing it.”

“When he thought of all he’d seen, done and experienced in his life, all he’d gained, lost, desired and agonized over, he found it inconceivable that everyone else could be subject, more or less, to the same unavoidable conditions and alternatives.”

“I can’t fathom the day when I’ll be able to figure out how to independently maneuver my way into my bra, like I used to, every day since I was thirteen. The left arm through the left loop, the left boob into the left cup. Never mind the clasp in the back. My poor injured brain gets all twisted up like some circus contortionist even trying to imagine how this procedure would work. I’m supposed to at least try every step of getting dressed on my own, but when it comes to the bra, I no longer bother. My mother just does it for me, and we don’t tell the therapists.She holds up one of my white Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bras. I close my eyes, shutting out the humiliating image of my mother manhandling my boobs. But even with my eyes closed, I can feel her cold fingers against my bare skin, and as I can’t help but picture what she’s doing, humiliation saunters right in, takes a seat, and puts its feet up. Like it does every day now.”

“Half full or half empty, just be thankful if your glass has anything in it at all.”

“Sincerity charged her every word like a bombshell that she launched in numbers amounting to a blitzkrieg he was powerless to withstand. She blew him all to pieces.”

“Am I doing what I really want to be doing? Absolutely not, yet I haven't ruled out that I'll get back into the mess. But after having my ass kicked day in and day out for ten years, it's about time that I have some life left in me.”